


Wingman

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Top Gun Fusion, Fighter Pilots, M/M, Military, Military Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9639488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: Top Gun AU.Fighter pilot Grantaire and his RIO Bossuet, calls signs Libertine and Lucky, are set to take Top Gun by storm. But Grantaire's rivalry with — and unrequited feelings for — a blond pilot (call sign Apollo) leads to disastrous consequences.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [@hippiesthop](https://tmblr.co/moDIaNK_ZZvK_DkKkx7eLjg), who requested unrequited military Enjolras/Grantaire, and who made the mistake of saying, and I quote, “do with that whatever you want.”  
> 
> 
> And what I want is angst, character death, and a Top Gun AU (though you really don't need to have seen the movie to understand what's happening).
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

_On March 3, 1969, the United States Navy established an elite school for the top one percent of its pilots. Its purpose was to teach the lost art of aerial combat and to ensure that the handful of men and women who graduated were the best fighter pilots in the world._

_Today, the Navy calls it Fighter Weapons School. The flyers call it: Top Gun._

Grantaire grinned as he sauntered into the bar right outside of Naval Air Station Miramar in San Diego, California. “Now this is what I call a target rich environment,” he said, adjusting the shoulder boards on his Summer Whites and winking at his balding companion, Bossuet, who grinned and rolled his eyes.

“You live your life between your legs, Lib,” Bossuet said, referring to Grantaire by the shortened version of his call sign as they walked to the bar, and he gestured for the bartender to bring them two beers, “when you should be more concerned about starting Top Gun tomorrow.”

Grantaire didn’t deny the charge, his grin turning smug as he lounged on the bar stool, surveying the numerous attractive men and women scattered throughout the busy bar, the majority of the patrons being fellow Navy officers and enlisted servicemembers. “Eagle, even you could get laid in a place like this,” he told Bossuet, calling him by his call sign as well.

Bossuet rolled his eyes again, taking a pull from his beer and following Grantaire’s gaze around the bar. “Firstly, I’m married, so I don’t need to get laid a scummy bar like this. Secondly, if you’re so confident, how about the usual wager: $20, and you must have carnal knowledge of someone currently in this bar, on the premises.”

For a moment, Grantaire didn’t reply. Instead, he seemed frozen, his beer halfway to his lips as he stared at a gorgeous blond man dressed in civilian clothes sitting across the bar. Then his grin widened and he drained his beer in a single gulp. “I just feel bad, Eagle,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, setting his bottle down on the bar.

“Why do you feel bad?” Bossuet asked, already not liking where this was headed.

Grantaire tipped his head towards the blond. “Because he’s lost that loving feeling.”

Bossuet groaned. “No he hasn’t,” he said, but Grantaire wasn’t listening, making his way across the bar towards the jukebox. “Lib, no he hasn’t!” When Grantaire showed no intention of turning back, Bossuet swore under his breath and drained his beer as well. “Man, I hate when he does this.” 

Grantaire leaned against the bar, smirking at the blond, who looked at him with no interest. “Hey there,” Grantaire said with a wink. “You look as if you’ve lost something.”

“I promise I haven’t,” the blond said, not smiling.

“Are you sure, because—” Grantaire asked, his grin widening as the opening strains of the Righteous Brothers’ song “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” started on the jukebox, and he sang along with song, “you never close your eyes anymore when I kiss your lips.”

Bossuet joined Grantaire to croon the second line of the song together. “There’s no tenderness like before in your fingertips.”

“You’re trying hard not to show it,” Grantaire and Bossuet sang, both looking surprised but gratified when practically the entire bar joined in:

“But baby! Baby, I know it. You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling, whoa-oh, that lovin’ feeling. You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling, now it’s gone, gone, gone. Whoa-oh-oh.”

The blond looked like he was trying hard to keep his expression stern, but he couldn’t help but smile slightly at the conclusion of the chorus, and he gestured for Grantaire to sit next to him. Grantaire grinned and sat as the bar burst into applause, and he gestured at the bartender for a beer. “Do you pull that routine often?” the blond asked, arching a perfect eyebrow at him.

Grantaire shrugged, still grinning. “Every now and then.”

“And how often has it succeeded?”

Grantaire considered the question for a moment. “Hard to say,” he said finally. “I have incomplete data. But if you ask me tomorrow morning, I’ll be able to tell you more.”

He winked and the blond shook his head. “Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen that approach.” He hesitated before holding out his hand for Grantaire to shake. “I’m Enjolras.”

“Libertine,” Grantaire said, shaking his hand.

Enjolras frowned slightly at him. “Libertine?” he repeated. “Does your mother not love you?”

Grantaire’s grin turned into a smug smirk. “It’s my call sign,” he said, puffing his chest out slightly so that the golden wings on his uniform caught the light.

Something shifted in Enjolras’s expression. “Oh, you’re a pilot,” he said, his tone completely neutral.

“A Naval aviator,” Grantaire corrected. 

Enjolras nodded in understanding. “I see,” he said, taking a sip of water. “So tell me, are you a good pilot?”

Grantaire shrugged, trying not to look or sound as cocky as he felt. “I can hold my own.”

“Good,” Enjolras said, setting his water down on the bar. “Then I don’t have to worry about you making your living as a singer.”

With that, he stood up from the bar and headed over to a group of Navy officers in the far corner of the bar, who he was clearly friends with. “Smooth,” Grantaire grumbled, turning back to the beer the bartender had put in front of him and thinking mournfully of the $20 he was going to owe Bossuet. “I’m going to need something stronger than this to put out these flames.”

* * *

Grantaire quickly slid into the seat at the very front of the room next to Bossuet, thankful not for the first time that the Navy had pretty lax regulations when it came to wearing sunglasses indoors, especially for pilots. “How’re you feeling?” Bossuet whispered.

“I’m fucking fine,” Grantaire muttered, his expression pinched. “And you don’t have to shout.”

The officer at the front of the room, a Lieutenant Commander from his insignia, cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, his tone clearly disapproving, “I’d like to be the first to say welcome to Top Gun, gentlemen.”

“And ladies,” a voice called from the back, and Grantaire swiveled in his seat to glance at the woman who had spoken up, a tough-looking blonde seated next to the only other woman in the class, an equally fierce brunette.

“Ah, yes,” the commander said, rifling through his notes. “Our first female aviator and Radar Intercept Officer team. Ladies, I’d also like to welcome you to Top Gun, especially you, Lieutenant Fauchelevent, on behalf of your father, Admiral Valjean.” The blonde’s eyes narrowed, but before she could retort, her RIO, the brunette, grabbed her arm and whispered something to her, and the blonde sat back in her seat, glaring at the commander. “I am Lt. Commander Javert, call sign Watchdog, and I will be in charge of your training. I’d also like to introduce you to the commanding officer here at Top Gun. You will not find a more qualified pilot anywhere else in world, let alone the US Navy.” He gestured toward the back of the room. “This is Commander Chabouillet, call sign Patron.”

Chabouillet strode to the front of the room, gesturing for the pilots to keep their seats. “Gentlemen — and ladies — you are the top one percent of all Naval aviators, the elite,” he said without preamble, gazing around at the assembled group. “The best of the best. But we’ll make you better. Now, we don’t make policy here. Elected officials — civilians — do that. We are the instruments of that policy, and although we aren’t at war, we must always act as though we are at war.”

Though his words were serious, they seemed to send a current of excitement through the assembled pilots, and Chabouillet gestured toward the back of the classroom. “Now, if you do in fact make it as the best of the best, you will get your name inscribed on the Top Gun trophy, but more importantly, you’ll have bragging rights for the rest of your career. When you look at that trophy, you’ll notice that my name is on there, so trust me — I know what I’m talking about.”

Grantaire grinned and elbowed Bossuet. “That’ll be us,” he said, in an attempted undertone, but Chabouillet heard him and glared down at him.

“You think your name will be there?” he asked.

Grantaire lifted his chin slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Chabouillet looked at him evenly. “That’s pretty arrogant.”

Shrugging, Grantaire met his gaze, and feeling no need to deny it, said, “Yes, sir.”

Chabouillet smiled slightly. “I like that in a pilot.” He raised his voice to address the entire group. “Just remember that you’re all on the same team. And there are no points for second place.” He strode over to the podium and glanced down at his notes. “Now, in addition to our first female team, we are also playing host to the first foreign officer to undertake Top Gun. He’s on loan from the Royal Canadian Navy, and boasts not only their top award for pilot, but is a certified expert in the MiG class aircraft you will be going up against. Lieutenant Commander Enjolras, if you’d like to join me.”

Grantaire felt his smug smile disappear as the same blond from the night before strode to the front of the room, the blue of his RCN Naval Combat uniform standing out among the sea of khaki uniform, and he shrank down in his chair, trying not the make eye contact as Enjolras began speaking to the class about the MiG aircrafts. “Shit,” Bossuet muttered, practically giddy with excitement as he looked between Grantaire and Enjolras. “You hit on a senior officer. You’re fucked.”

Though Grantaire rolled his eyes, it was with far more bravado than he actually felt, and he only half-listened as Enjolras droned on. But partway through the lecture, Grantaire managed to tune back in, and as soon as he did, the part of him that lacked all self-preservation skills seemed to finally wake up. “Now, the MiG-28 has a problem with its inverted flight tanks,” Enjolras was saying. “It can’t do a negative-G pushover. The latest intelligence tells us that the mist it will do — can I help you, Lieutenant?”

His curt words were aimed at Grantaire, who had raised his hand, a hint of his cocky grin back on his face. “Yes, sir,” he said, as politely as he could, clearly enjoying the moment as much as, if not more than, the night before. “The data on the MiG is inaccurate.”

A muscle worked in Enjolras’s jaw. “How is that, Lieutenant?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, I just happened to see—”

“We,” Bossuet interjected, giving Grantaire a look.

“Sorry, Eagle,” Grantaire said, inclining his head at Bossuet. “ _We_ just happened to see a MiG-28 do a 4-G negative dive.”

Enjolras gripped the podium with both hands. “Where did you see this?”

Grantaire’s smirk widened. “That’s classified,” he said, and there was a collective gasp at his nerve from the group. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Enjolras smiled coldly, clearly not believing Grantaire. “Lieutenant, I have clearance above top secret. Your government and mine sees to it that I know more than you.”

Grantaire shrugged again before saying innocently, “Well, sir, in this case it doesn’t seem like it, does it?”

A giggle escaped from someone in the back of the room, and Enjolras glared at the source before looking back at Grantaire, all hints of his smile gone. “I’ll repeat, Lieutenant, where exactly were you?”

“Well, _we_ —” Grantaire started, and Bossuet nodded and mouthed _thank you_ , “—we started up on his six as pulled through the clouds, and ended up directly above him.”

“If you were directly above him, how could you see him make this 4-G dive?”

Grantaire exchanged a glance with Bossuet. “I was inverted.”

“You know, upside-down,” Bossuet added unnecessarily. “And it’s true, I took a picture.”

A look of realization crossed Enjolras’s face, and Grantaire’s smile turned triumphant. Enjolras undoubtedly recognized the story — it had been a big deal in the naval aviator community, since it was the first time an F-14 had come that close to a MiG since the end of the Cold War. “And what were you doing up there?”

“Communicating,” Grantaire said. “Keeping up with foreign relations.” When Enjolras just looked confused, he elaborated, “I was giving him the bird.”

“The bird,” Enjolras repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You know, the finger,” Bossuet added, again unnecessarily, flipping Enjolras off as a demonstration.

Enjolras looked coldly at him. “Yes, Lieutenant, I’m familiar with the gesture,” he said with a hint of impatience.

Bossuet looked at his upright middle finger as if surprised it was there. “I’m sorry, I hate when it does that,” he said, as general laughter sounded throughout the room.

But Enjolras didn’t seem to notice the laughter; his glare had transferred back to Grantaire, who met his gaze evenly, still smiling. “So you’re the one,” Enjolras said, his tone still cold, and Grantaire’s grin widened.

“Yes, sir.”

Javert cleared his throat and stepped to the front of the room. “Alright, gentlemen, we have a hop to take. Hard deck for this flight will be 10,000 feet, so there’ll be no engagement below that. Dismissed!”

The pilots all stood, making their way out of the classroom to change into their flight suits and prepare for the first day’s flying exercise. Grantaire, however, lingered, waiting to talk to Enjolras, who was conspicuously ignoring him as he packed up his notes. “Why didn’t you tell me you were also a pilot?” Grantaire asked as Enjolras walked past him.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” Enjolras said, not pausing in his step. “Besides, I believe the correct term is ‘naval aviator’.”

Grantaire followed him. “You let me make a fool of myself,” he said, still feeling a little stung.

“Not the first time it’s happened, I’m sure,” Enjolras said, pausing and leaning his shoulder against the door to the locker room and surveying Grantaire coolly. “And at the rate you’re going, I highly doubt it’ll be your last.”

With that, he pushed the door open with his shoulder and disappeared inside, leaving Grantaire to fume in the hallway for a long moment before following him inside and making his way over to his locker and throwing it open with perhaps more force than necessary. “So I was getting the scoop from the other RIOs while you were busy flirting in the hallway,” Bossuet told him, already dressed and waiting for him. “And if you want to know who the best is, it’s your crush over there. Call sign Apollo. He flies like Apollo shooting an arrow — always hits his target.”

Grantaire yanked his shirt off, his dogtags bouncing against his chest. “We’ll just have to see about that.”

* * *

“Gentlemen, this is your first hop,” Javert said over the radio as the F-14 hurtled through the sky toward the enemy aircraft. “The jets you’re flying against are smaller, faster and more maneuverable. The clock is ticking, and as of now, we are keeping score. Good luck.”

“As if we aren’t taking this seriously,” Grantaire called to Bossuet, seated in the back of the plane and in the middle of taking a picture of himself with an old Polaroid camera.

Their goal was simple: find the MiG, engage and lock on targets long enough that they could fire a missile and destroy the plane, all before the MiG was able to do the same to them. Javert was flying the enemy aircraft, and based on everything they had seen, was as good if not better than any pilot they’d ever flown against. “Bogey, dead ahead,” Bossuet told Grantaire. “Coming at us fast.”

The enemy plane zoomed toward them and Grantaire only just managed to yank the controls to the side to avoid a head-on collision. “Shit,” he swore, craning his neck as best he could to peer out the cockpit. “I’ve lost him — where is he?”

“On your six,” Bossuet reported, his own voice strained from the G-force exerted on them as Grantaire yanked on the controls. “Coming in hard — four hundred meters. He’s on your six and closing fast!”

Grantaire jerked the controls to pull the F-14 into a quick turn just as Javert’s plane roared past. “I got him,” Grantaire growled, pulling the plane around to follow Javert. “Let’s see what you’ve got now, Watchdog!”

Bossuet whooped as they closed in on Javert. “Alright, Lib! Let’s take that sonofabitch down!” Unexpectedly, Javert’s plane dipped into a sharp dive, and Grantaire quickly shifted controls to follow. “He’s going for the hard deck,” Bossuet reported, checking the readings. “We’ve got to get him, and quick.”

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire said confidently. “Watchdog’s mine.”

Both planes barreled down towards the rapidly approaching ground, the G-force pressing Grantaire back against his seat even as he struggled to aim, Javert just managing to evade him. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, the plane beginning to shake from the pressure being exerted on it. Suddenly, the computer locked on to Javert and beeped in affirmation, and Grantaire whooped. “Got him! Watchdog is dead!”

Bossuet cheered as well, shouting a few choice curse words as Grantaire righted the plane, pulling up to Javert’s wing and tossing a mocking salute at him. Javert looked distinctly unimpressed as he told them over the radio, “Get your asses above the hard deck and return to base immediately.”

Without warning, his plane banked sharply and flew off in the opposite direction. “Sore loser,” Bossuet commented as Grantaire directed the plane towards home.

“Whatever,” Grantaire said, still grinning. “I bet this’ll wipe the smug look off Enjolras’s face.”

* * *

“We got him!” Bossuet crowed triumphantly, and the locker room burst into applause. Grantaire and Bossuet were given high-fives all around, and Grantaire couldn’t stop grinning as he opened his locker and plopped down on the bench.

“What, didn’t everyone?” he asked innocently, already knowing the answer.

The pilot next to him, Courfeyrac, call sign Tomcat, snorted, and his RIO, Prouvaire, call sign intrepid, shook his head. “Hell no,” Prouvaire said, a touch dejected. “We got our ass handed to us.”

Courfeyrac grinned good-naturedly. “Took us only thirty seconds, too,” he said, laughing. “We went like this, he went like that, and I said to Intrepid, ‘where’d he go?’ And he was like, ‘Where who’d go?’”

They all laughed, though the laughter died down slightly when the locker room door opened to admit Enjolras and his RIO, Combeferre, call sign Mothman. “We won,” Combeferre said, a touch smug.

“So did Libertine and Eagle,” Courfeyrac told them.

Enjolras didn’t look over at Grantaire as he made his way to his locker. “That’s not what I heard,” he said.

Grantaire stood, glaring at Enjolras, the adrenaline of the day pumping through his veins. “Well we did, we got him.”

“You got him below the hard deck,” Enjolras said scornfully, looking over at Grantaire for the first time. “That doesn’t count.”

“Doesn’t count my ass,” Grantaire said, equally scornful, and he gave Bossuet a high-five. “We nailed that son of a bitch.”

Bossuet whooped in affirmation and Enjolras rolled his eyes, unzipping his flight suit. “You guys really are cowboys.”

Grantaire snapped — he strode over to Enjolras, getting in his face and glaring at him. “What the hell is your problem?” he asked, frustration reaching the boiling point.

Enjolras looked at him disdainfully, clearly unimpressed. “You’re _everyone’s_ problem,” he said. “Because every time you go up in the air, you’re unsafe. I read the report about your little MiG encounter, and you abandoned your wingman just to pull some theatric stunts. I don’t like you because you’re dangerous.”

“That’s exactly right, Apollo,” Grantaire growled. “I am dangerous.”

They glared at each other, faces mere inches apart, and it looked like the situation might come to blows were it not for Javert yanking the locker room door open and barking, “Libertine, Eagle, get your asses out of those flight suits and up to Patron’s office. Now!”

* * *

“You know, Lib, at one point I did actually want a career in the Navy,” Bossuet said gloomily, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Relax, would you?” he said. “We barely got reprimanded and we’ve had a half-dozen successful hops since.”

Bossuet shrugged and glanced around baggage claim at the San Diego International Airport, looking uncomfortable in his civilian clothes — though perhaps it was the conversation making him uncomfortable. “Yeah, but…” He broke off, shaking his head. “Look, when we first found out we were coming to Top Gun, all I cared about was getting that trophy. But now — I gotta be honest with you, now I just hope we graduate.” Grantaire looked down, his shoulders tensing, as Bossuet added, “I got a family to think about. I can’t afford to blow this.”

“I know,” Grantaire said quietly, looking up at Bossuet. “You’re the only family I’ve got. And I’m not gonna let you down. I promise.”

For a moment, they both just looked at each other, but the moment was broken by someone in baggage claim shouting, “Hey, baldy, is that something in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

A grin broke out on Bossuet’s face and he ran over to greet his husband with a huge hug and kiss, while their little girl ran past them, arms outstretched toward Grantaire. “Uncle R, Uncle R!” she called, and Grantaire grinned and grabbed her, swinging her up through the air before settling her on his hip.

“Nice to see you, too, Musichetta,” he said, kissing her forehead before walking over to greet Bossuet’s husband, Joly, with a one-armed hug. “Hey, Jolllly.”

“Libertine,” Joly said, grinning at him, his arm wrapped around Bossuet’s waist. “So Bossuet hasn’t given me much of an update on your love life. When are you going to settle down and marry?”

Grantaire snorted, heading toward the airport exit with them. “When my ass stops getting handed to me by this program, maybe,” he said.

Bossuet nudged his husband. “I told you how difficult this program is,” he said seriously. “Like I said, it’s so time-consuming, Grantaire hasn’t even found a lover yet.”

“And as I told you then, he may not have found one because he’s probably found eight,” Joly said with a laugh, and Grantaire grinned good-naturedly. “Besides, what’s this Bossuet’s told me about how you’re in love with one of the pilots in your program?”

Grantaire gave Bossuet a look and Bossuet glared at Joly. “I didn’t tell you that!”

“Yes you did,” Joly said, a little smugly.

“That was supposed to be a secret!” Bossuet hissed.

“Well, I’m not sure I was supposed to know that!” Joly shot back.

Grantaire just rolled his eyes, following them out to the car as they continued bickering, though their fight was interspersed with kisses. In love with...he wasn’t in love with anyone. Certainly not a rude, arrogant blond...no matter how hot he might be.

And if Grantaire’s every thought when he wasn’t flying was about Enjolras...well, he just wanted to be the best. And to be the best, he had to beat the best.

He explained as much to Joly later that night when they were at the bar. Joly just gave him a look. “You keep telling yourself that,” he said, shaking his head and draining his beer. “Maybe you’ll be able to get yourself to believe it.” 

* * *

With Joly and their daughter finally in town, Bossuet seemed like a different man. Nothing could break his good mood over the next few weeks, even as they continued to battle Enjolras and Combeferre for the top spot. But Grantaire was not so lucky, practically consumed by the need for Enjolras’s attention, or validation, or...something.

They were headed out to their plane one day when Intrepid called, “Hey, Lib, did you hear about Apollo? He won another one. You’re tied again.”

Grantaire could practically feel his teeth grind together, and he glanced over at Bossuet. “You know what?” he said, putting his helmet on. “I feel the need—”

“The need for speed!” Bossuet finished, grinning. “Let’s do it!”

At first, the flight exercise was routine enough to be almost boring. The two F-14s spotted the two MiGs and engaged. The problem began when Courfeyrac, with Grantaire on his wing, couldn’t seem to take a shot on the MiG, despite having a clear shot, and Grantaire had to bite back his impatience. “If you’re not gonna take a shot, come off it,” he snapped into the radio. “Come off right and I’ll engage.”

“Stay where you are,” Courfeyrac shot back, his voice crackling over the radio. “He’s mine, I’m engaged. Stay out of it.”

Grantaire banged his fist against the controls. “Fire or clear out!” He glanced back at Bossuet. “This is bullshit, I could’ve had this shot by now.”

Bossuet shook his head. “Give him a break,” he said, clearly not chomping at the bit the way Bossuet was. “It’s only been a few seconds.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, in no mood for Bossuet’s happy-go-lucky bullshit. Instead, he called over the radio, “If you can’t shoot him, I can.”

“No, I got him,” Courfeyrac replied. “I can take him.”

But Grantaire’s patience had reached its breaking point, and he snapped, “I’m coming in!” before diving his plane between the other two. Clearly thrown off by Grantaire, Courfeyrac quickly cut away to avoid hitting him, causing Grantaire to fly through his turbulence. 

The blast of turbulence rattled the plane and Grantaire swore, slamming down on the control stick to correct, but it was too late. “We’ve got a flame out!” Bossuet shouted, panic creeping into his voice as the plane rocketed unstably toward the ground. “Engine one is out!” Without warning, the second engine gave out, and the panic in Bossuet’s voice was now full-throttle. “Engine two is out! Shit!”

“I’m losing control!” Grantaire shouted, pulling ineffectively at the control stick. “Can’t recover!”

Sure enough, the plane was no longer flying, instead tumbling toward the ground, spinning like a giant, out-of-control metal frisbee. “We’re losing altitude!” Bossuet called. “4000 feet! We have to eject!”

“I can’t reach the eject handle,” Grantaire said, trying and failing to do just that, pinned against the controls by the G-forces. 

“I’ll do it,” Bossuet said, gritting his teeth.

“Watch the canopy!” Grantaire shouted, but Bossuet had already yanked the eject handle, the rocket under his seat igniting before the cockpit canopy had a chance to clear the airspace. With a sickening crunch, Bossuet hit the canopy, his body going limp. “Eagle!” Grantaire shouted, but his own seat was launched out of the plane and he barely had time to think before his parachute unfurled, slowing his velocity just enough before he landed in the ocean.

Grantaire was instantly buffeted by the choppy sea, but he managed to kick his way back towards the surface, swimming with all his might towards the other parachute floating on the sea. “Bossuet!” he called, his mouth filling with sea water. “Bossuet!”

But as soon as he got to him, Grantaire knew he was too late. Bossuet’s eyes were open, staring unseeing at the sky, his lifeless body supported only by his life jacket. “Eagle,” Grantaire croaked, shaking him. “Eagle!”

When the Coast Guard found them, Grantaire was still holding onto Bossuet’s body, as if he could hold him tightly enough to bring him back.

* * *

Grantaire’s expression was empty, devoid of all emotions as he cleaned his belongings out of his locker. He heard someone come in behind him but made no move to turn around or acknowledge them. “How are you doing?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire paused for a second, almost surprised.

But surprise would mean that Grantaire felt something, and he had thus far squashed down every emotion he could, and when he couldn’t, drowned them in as much alcohol as he could drink. “I’m fine,” he said.

“You fly jets long enough, something like this happens,” Enjolras said, sitting down on the bench.

Grantaire jerked his shoulders in a shrug. “He was my RIO, my responsibility...my friend.”

Enjolras was quiet for a moment before offering, “I lost my first RIO, Porter, to enemy fire.” Grantaire closed his eyes as if trying to block out Enjolras’s words. “You lose someone, and you die a little, too. And in this line of work, you’ll lose others. But you’ve got it in you to be one of the best. As long as you can let him go.”

For the first time, Grantaire turned around to face Enjolras, his eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. “Why do you care?” he asked abruptly.

Enjolras looked at him impassively. “I don’t,” he said. “But it’s eating you alive so someone has to be the one to tell you — it wasn’t your fault.”

“It _was_ my fault,” Grantaire said, biting off his words. “I’ve been over it eighty thousand times in my head, and I just...I don’t know what went wrong.”

“That’s because it’s not your flying that killed him,” Enjolras told him. “And it won’t be your flying that kills you. It’s your attitude. You fly dangerous and foolish, but that’s not what killed him. You’ve got to know whose side you’re on if you’re ever going to make it back up there.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I was on Eagle’s side,” he said bitterly. “He still died.”

Enjolras’s voice broke slightly as he replied, “And I’m sorry about that. I liked him. Everyone did.” A touch of his old passion rose in his voice. “But you’ve got to go on. You’ve been haunting this place like a ghost for the last two weeks, and you can’t keep doing it. You’re one of the best pilots in the Navy, and what we do up there is dangerous.” He broke off for a moment, searching Grantaire’s face for some reaction, and when he didn’t see any, he sighed. “Bossuet knew that as much as anyone else. To be the best of the best means that you make mistakes, but then you go on.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Grantaire spat, his temper getting the best of him. “But how the hell do you want me to go on like this, without him?” He slammed his locker shut, automatically looking over at the locker next to his, EAGLE still stenciled across it, and he dropped his hand to his pocket, where he had kept Bossuet’s dogtags ever since an overwhelmed and grieving Joly had given them to him.

Enjolras shook his head. “You just do,” he said simply.

Grantaire’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed heavily before asking, “Why are you here, Enjolras?”

“I’m here to help.”

A twisted smile lifted Grantaire’s lips, though there was no actual mirth in it. “You’re here to help,” he repeated. “Well, if I had wanted help, I would’ve asked for it.”

“You’d have to be sober enough to ask for it,” Enjolras said, a little impatiently, and Grantaire just shook his head, grabbing his duffle bag and shuffling toward the locker room door. “So that’s it, then. You’re just going to give up?”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Grantaire asked, spinning around, his grief as near to the surface as he had ever allowed it to be. “You wanted the Top Gun trophy, you wanted me to stop flying the way I fly — well, congratulations. You got what you wanted.”

Enjolras stood, a muscle working in his jaw. “I wanted you to learn something,” he said, his voice low. “And it seems the only thing you learned was how to quit.” Grantaire just stared at him, defiant, and Enjolras sighed and shook his head, his voice softening. “This isn’t what I wanted, Grantaire,” he said quietly. “And I don’t think it’s what you want, either.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, his heart pounding painfully in chest. “What I want…” he murmured, opening his eyes to stare unseeingly in front of him. “What I want is for Bossuet to be alive still, to hold his husband and kiss his daughter and laugh that annoying fucking laugh that drove me crazy.” He looked at Enjolras. “But I can’t get what I want. So it seems only fair that someone should.” He turned, hefting his duffle bag up on his shoulder. “I turned my wings in. I’m done.”

With that, he was gone, striding down the hallway and ignoring Enjolras shouts of, “Libertine! Libertine, wait!” that followed him.

And for the first time, as he fumbled with his aviator sunglasses, Grantaire allowed himself to cry.


End file.
